


On Fashions & Small Fry

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: a snippet regarding Bruce and Damian's father-son relationship. may be added onto.





	On Fashions & Small Fry

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Keane's "The Frog Prince"

“You never take me anywhere!”

This came from the upstairs bedroom. The next words rippled down the hall, tinged with petulance.

“Why? Are you afraid the demon child will bite?”

“It’s not that. You’re safer here—”

“In the most dangerous city in the U.S.? You have strange ideas, Father.”

“You’re safer here with your brothers and sister. If I take you with me, there’s always a chance that we’ll be separated.”

“You mean I’ll _wander off_?”

Bruce sighed. “Stop putting words into my mouth, Damian,” he ordered, snapping his suitcase closed. He walked into the closet, in search of a particular Armani tie. His son followed, doubled pace to keep up.

“Then explain,” Damian near pleaded. “You are able to take me to the conference in Sacramento, you said you would before. What has changed?” He stepped in front of his father, face pinched in discontent. The man’s eyes continued to scan the closet.

The child’s jaw set. He yanked at the tie hanger, snapping it off the rod. It crumpled to the ground in a heap. Damian crossed his arms and kicked at it. “There.”

Bruce peered down at the boy, lips pressed straight like an ironing board as if to say ‘That’s enough, now.’ He knelt and searched the array of ties. He picked out the teal Armani tie, and raised his eyebrows in question at his son.

Damian quickly looked away as if he had not been looking. He shrugged. “I prefer the one with dolphins.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Bruce said drily, standing to his feet. He ambled out of the closet. Stepping in front of the mirror, he fastened the tie around his neck. He gazed at the reflection. Damian was leaning against the closet doorframe, arms tight across his body and expression dark. Sulking, Bruce realized. His son was sulking. His lips quirked in amusement at the childish preoccupation. He turned around. “Come here,” he said warmly.

Damian rolled his eyes, but stomped over.

Bruce ruffled the boy’s hair fondly. “I’ll be back within a week,” he told him. “I won’t be long.”

“It’s not that. It’s that you _said_ —”

“I know what I said.”

Damian uncrossed his arms, eyes beseeching. “I’ll give up anything, I promise,” he vowed. “My sparring time, my kantanas, my ipod, anything,” he pressed. “Anything in the world. I want to go too.”

Bruce gazed down at him.

The child’s eyes were earnest, brows arched high. His skin gleamed golden in the afternoon sun. Everything about his small body was thrumming with hopeful, nervous energy, on the precipice of—

 _Breaking._  
“Beloved.” The span between them, the breaths of two lovers who should have known better, was tinged with desperation. “Please.”  
He was breaking her.

Bruce broke out of his reverie, taking in his son. Full lips, straight nose, eyelashes that flicked up at the corners…her face. The fact made his heart twinge in a forgotten place, still raw. He brought his hand and cupped his son’s face. “You look like her,” he commented quietly.

The boy froze.

That…that wasn’t—Father didn’t mean—  
Damian did not say anything for a long time. He gazed down at his father’s shoes, wishing to hide his face. (Guilt seeped into his skin, sin sang the framework of his bones.) The sun shifted, gleaming off Bruce’s leather shoes. He would be leaving soon.

Damian looked up into his father’s blue eyes.

“Let me come with you,” he finally whispered. His hand rested against his father’s wrist. “Please.”

The man brushed his thumb against the boy’s cheek. Still so young. It was moments like this he remembered.

“I’m sorry, Damian,” Bruce apologized. His tone was sincere, and full of regret. “But the answer is no.”

Damian stepped out of his grasp, stiff in anger and disappointment.

Bruce watched mildly as the child stomped to the window. “I’d say behave, but defiant seems to be your natural state, so I won’t take my chances.”

No snort or glib response.

Very well. He gathered his suitcase and crossed the room. He made the door, but stopped halfway.

“Are you going to say goodbye?”

“What’s the point? It’s not like you ever listen to me anyway.”

For the love of—

Bruce caught his stirrings of frustration and dispelled them. He sighed, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll facecall you,” he called out.

Damian stood at the window. His arms crossed around himself, holding up his steel posture.

She had stood at the window then, too. Her pride kept her head high, but her eyes blazed with newfound hatred. Condemning him. Loving him all the same.

The light streamed through the window, sprinkling sunspots on the floor  
Bruce shook his head. “You know, sometimes you really are just like her.”

Damian whirled around. His mouth opened, then closed. “I—” he managed croakily. He blinked several times.

At least he was looking at him, this time. Bruce took advantage of the moment. He released his hold on the doorknob, strode over, and brushed back the boy’s locks. He pressed a kiss to his head. “Goodbye, Damian.”

“Bye,” he muttered sullenly.

He didn’t snag his father’s coat or lean into his embrace. He didn’t kick him when he walked away either, though he wanted to.

Damian listened to the far-off steps, breathing in and closing his eyes when his father was sufficiently away. He swallowed and opened his eyes. The man was soon in the courtyard, placing his suitcase into the trunk with a satisfying slam. The gravel crunched underneath the tires as Bruce drove off. The boy pressed his forehead against the glass pane, feeling something indistinct worm into his heart and stab at it.

Damian sighed.

Alone again. 


End file.
